Recovery
by BendyStrawBunny
Summary: Set right after the events of OUaTiM, Sands lays broken and lost but resists any help given to him.
1. The sounds of the street

Chiclet sat, legs curled up close to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He rested with his side leaning on the rough wall, the right side of his face pressed up against the hot grainy rock, studying the figure next to him.   
  
Sands had collapsed hours ago, seconds after the man with the dog had turned the corner and disappeared from sight. His knees had buckled and his limp body had slid down the wall quickly, landing on the hard ground with a soft thud. He hadn't moved since.  
  
The young boy wondered if he was dead, prayed he wasn't, but didn't dare to touch him to find out. He had spend the past hours staring at the strange man and wondering what he was really doing. He had millions of unanswered questions building in his mind. Who was he? Why was he here? The man was obviously not Mexican. But Chiclet said nothing, holding his queries until the right moment, wondering if Sands knew he was with him.   
  
  
  
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Sands sat, back arched slightly, head resting on a wall. His legs were bent in front of him, both half asleep. His arms were thrown carelessly at his sides, palms up facing the sky. He felt too weak to move, to speak, to do anything but sit, unable to even change his awkward position.   
  
He had heard Jorge's footsteps grow fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear them at all. The exact moment he realized he had gone Sands felt his legs go. He had the sudden sensation that his entire body had turned to jelly as he fell back and let it fall down the rocky wall, not having enough energy to care that his back was being scraped painfully.   
  
He slumped for God knows how long, just listening. As listening was all he could really do. He heard it when people slowly opened their doors and crept out into the streets to explore the damage after the coup d'etat. He had heard their conversations in quickly spoken Spanish, his clouded mind understanding only every few words.   
  
He knew Chiclet was there, he also knew he was watching him. Sands could hear the rustle of his pants as he moved his legs even the slightest, the faint ripping as the boy tore at gum packets out of nerves. Wondering whether he was alright Sands assumed, somewhat warmed at the thought of a being actually giving a shit. Even if it was some little kid from the Mexican streets.   
  
Now he felt the burning of the sun against his left cheek slowly, slowly wean. The sun was setting, the day was ending, how long had he been here?   
  
Soon the feeling of the sun was all gone and Sands' ears were met with the sounds of the people retreating back into their homes, shutting windows, finishing last minute chores. As part of his mind focused on the back and forth swish of a broom, another part wandered if he was ever going to move from this spot. Why would he? Its not like he had any where to go, anyone to see. Eventually even Chiclet would leave, riding his bicycle down the street, tires bouncing up and down over rises and potholes.   
  
Sands had just decided that he was going to rot in this very spot, on some Godforsaken spit of sidewalk, in some broken city, in some loud and burning country when he felt hands grip themselves around his arm tightly and drag his sore and aching body up off the ground.   
  
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El sat, elbows to knees, hands folded, chin resting on top. The small chair he occupied was tall and stiff, which would make leaning back a very uncomfortable affair.   
  
He breathed slowly as he watched the figure in the hospital bed.   
  
He had come back for Sands.  
  
Of course he had come back.  
  
Was there ever any doubt in his mind that he'd eventually come back to him? Regretless of the man's shitty attitude, he was still a partner. A partner El didn't want to leave behind.  
  
The boy was in the room too, standing at the head of the bed still watching over the man. He had followed El here, oblivious to El's advice that he should go home. The boy had just smiled an innocent little smile and walked faster. El didn't mind him too much now, he seemed to genuinely care. But why any boy would care about Sands so deeply was beyond him.  
  
El ran a hand through his hair, and sighed, a deep breath mingling with the   
  
stuffy hospital air as the door opened with a loud creak. Two men walked in.   
  
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Sands awoke with a start. Awoke? Had he fallen asleep?   
  
He could no longer feel the wall scraping against the back of his skull. In its place was a gentle numbness, and a feeling he couldn't quite place. His arm twitched as he brought it slowly to his head.  
  
A pillow, it was a fucking pillow.  
  
Oh Christ, what had happened now? Walls, he expected, hard dirty floors, he expected. But pillows? Now those were like a kick in the nuts.   
  
"--hospital"  
  
Sands jerked forward at the sound. He had assumed he was alone, but now that he was more then half awake he could feel his ears start working again.   
  
"I... don't need to go to any.. fucking Mexican hospital." he managed to spit out the first words he had spoken in ages.   
  
He heard a laugh, sweet but sickening, like too much syrup on your pancakes. "You're already in one, hombre."   
  
Sands' hands flew back to head, something was missing. "My glasses.. where.." he dragged his finger tips across his face and felt in their place tightly bound bandages wrapped all the way around, covering the holes in his head.   
  
Another laugh, just as bittersweet "They're just bandages man, don't freak out or anything! Shit El, this guy is a fucking trip.."  
  
El? 


	2. Bloody Bandages

Chiclet's body sat curled up in a tight ball, his arms wrapped securely around his knees and his face buried, tucked snuggly in the crook of his left arm.   
  
Even through his deep sleep he heard Sand's gruff voice ring out in spastic bursts. His small head jerked upwards at the sound, and he let out an almost undetectable breath of relief, happy to know his friend was alright.  
  
He silently watched the short conversation play out between the bed-ridden man and two men Chiclet had never seen before.   
  
The men had been in the now completely darkened hospital room for what Chiclet could only guess had been an hour. Time went by very unevenly when you spent the hours watching an unconscious man. The first man had a sharp face, a strange contrast to the slumped and tired face that had belonged to the man who had followed behind.   
  
The large mariachi with the kind face had mentioned their names.. hadn't he? They both had the kind of names that you knew were common, but could still never seem to remember. One had been like a dog..  
  
"Fideo, Lorenzo--"  
  
_____________________________  
  
"--Meet Sands, rogue CIA agent, and master pistolero." El said with a softly mocking flourish.  
  
Sands made a scoffing noise and turned slightly to the side, as if to get a better look, ignoring the notable handicap of having no eyes. "Ex-agent.." He sunk back, "I'm not dealing with their bullshit anymore. They can screw themselves all by their onesies."   
  
Sands heard a short take of breath being cut off by the door slamming open. Then a loud creak followed by orders spoken in fast paced Spanish. What is with these fucking people? How did they expect him to understand anything if they didn't slow the hell down? He had only been shot twice and had his eyes gouged out with fucking spikes. Its not like--  
  
"Holy fuck--!" He bit his tongue, letting the rest of his expletive die in his throat.   
  
He had been too pre-occupied with his self pity to notice the taps of the doctor's shoes as he walked swiftly towards him, and started to peel back the bandages on his face. The cold hands had brushed across his forehead with a sharp pang, taking him by surprise.  
  
He bit his tongue even harder as the gauze pulled off his skin. It felt like a giant band-aid was being torn off his face in a painfully slow pace, his skin smeared with fresh blood sticking to the bandages like glue.   
  
Even the stale air felt fresh as it blew across the throbbing sockets that used to hold his eyes. The skin where the bandages had been felt raw and torn, he stretched the muscles in his face and shook his head slowly, letting air shift in and out, getting used to the hospital air.   
  
He felt harsh fingertips probe the tender flesh around the sockets.   
  
The pain caused by this exposure had at least served to clear Sand's mind enough to understand the doctor's comments.   
  
"Se infecta. El instrumento utilizado no se limpió apropiadamente.."  
  
So, it's infected, well that's just friggin' peach--  
  
He bit his tongue faster this time. A low hissing was the only sound that escaped his lips as a liquid was spread across cut and bloody flesh. The disinfectant burned as it seeped into the tears, making Sands flinch. He hated looking so weak in front of El, but damn.. it stung like hell.  
  
New bandages were wrapped tightly around his head, sealing the medicine in. Sands finally let himself relax as he felt the doctor move on to changing the bandages on his gunshot wounds. His facial expression quickly changed from a discomforted grimace to a nonchalant smirk when he heard the doctor shoo the other men from the room, saying his patient needed rest.   
  
"Yes, I know you're all horribly fascinated with me.. but honestly, guys.. I just need peace."  
  
He heard them being ushered out before anyone could retort. Sands turned his head into the flat pillow and smiled. 


End file.
